For one name on her list, the high priestess decided to rely on more subtle measures.
*****
Lord Nymon was a gruff old bull who had survived much intrigue over his career and had even capitalized on it. Now he controlled the political fortunes of enough other high-ranking minotaurs to give him influence over the affairs of the empire, and this time he intended to use that influence.
Nymon admired Hotak, even supported him in many things, but he did not care for these rumors of a hereditary line. It went against everything minotaur. However, Nymon also knew the dangers of protesting the emperor's ideas. Hotak's own patriarch, Itonus, was an example of what happened to those who believed like Nymon.
Itonus was a fool, though. The way to defy the new emperor was by open, unified opposition through legal channels. Confronted in his court by a petition presented by the strongest of the emperor's supporters, Hotak would have to not only hear the protests, but answer them openly before his subjects. That would kill any notions of his son Ardnor becoming emperor.
Although it was late, Nymon continued his writing. The others still needed some convincing, but tomorrow he would give them the proof. He had worked all evening to make everything perfect. On the table next to a knife were the cores of two apples, the only sustenance he had allowed himself.
An odor wafted past his nostrils. The scent of the sea. Nymon looked to the window, but it was shuttered tight to keep out the harsh winds blowing about Nethosak. Behind him, the shadows coalesced into the monstrous form of the ghost Takyr.
Takyr floated behind the broad-shouldered minotaur, white eyes looking over both the noble and his papers. The cadaverous shade reached out one bony hand and touched Nymon on the arm.
Nymon shivered and clutched the arm. He looked around the room.
Invisible to the mortal's eyes, Takyr leaned close, placing his rotting muzzle only an inch from Nymon's ear.
You have enemies… many enemies, Lord Nymon.
The seated figure shifted and looked up furtively before resuming his work.
Even the emperor is displeased with you. He knows your thoughts concerning his son and the throne.
Nymon started. He gazed at the wall and muttered, “Can Hotak know what I do? Surely not.”
Takyr persisted. Your enemies know the emperor will not protect you from them. Should they seek your death, he will let them.
The quill snapped. Lord Nymon eyed the splattered ink as if it were his own blood. Had Hotak distanced himself of late? Nymon tried to recall their last encounter and everything he remembered he saw in a terrible light.
“Hotak knows. He must! By Argon! He'll—”
The ghost interjected into his thoughts, Your enemies draw near. They come for you now, knowing that they will receive accolades from the emperor, not punishment.
Gasping, the elder noble rose and rushed to the shuttered window. Flinging it open, he glanced outside as the wind threw back his mane and droplets of rain splattered his face.
“Nothing,” grunted the minotaur, but he left the window open.
But again words of fear spread by the ghost filled his thoughts. Your enemies are within your own home.
A shutter creaked. Nymon jumped. A floorboard groaned under his feet. He jerked toward the door, certain that the sound was that of an approaching assassin.
Like a vulture circling a sickened animal, the spectre floated around his prey. He touched the minotaur on the cheek, making Nymon turn nervously.
The old warrior's heart pounded now. He started for the door then hesitated. Influenced by the shade's whispers, he saw in his mind a horde of armed figures wending their way up the stairs.
Their axes and swords gleamed sharp.
Still Takyr was not finished. He breathed in the face of his victim, letting Nymon's subconscious taste the cold of the grave, the chill of death. His head was filled with visions of himself hacked up by assassins or—worse—dragged off to a public execution. Both would bring shame to his House.
“No, I can't let that happen.”
Takyr grinned, rotting teeth and gums displayed for one who could not see him. There is one way that will spare your family, your honor…
The ghoul stretched forth his fleshless fingers, and the knife that the noble had used for the apples jostled just enough to catch Nymon's attention.
Clutching the blade, the minotaur brought it to his chest then paused.
“No, this isn't right!” Nymon lowered the knife. He put his other hand to his head, closing his eyes as he sought to focus his thoughts. “This is madness!”
Takyr touched the hand that held the knife.
The noble's eyes widened.
The hand sank the blade into his heart.
A horrified gurgle escaped Nymon. He twisted around, mouth agape. Dying eyes at last saw the foul spectre haunting him. Nymon reached out an imploring hand, but Takyr floated back, savoring the moment. Lord Nymon collapsed.
Drifting to the table, Takyr ran one finger over each line of his prey's writing. As he did, the words leaped from the page, jumbled around, and reorganized themselves. When the ghost was finished, the parchments now held a full and detailed confession to crimes against the imperium, along with a pleading for mercy for his family and House.
*****
Nephera sat in her chambers, sipping wine and looking over a list. She did not raise her gaze when she sensed the presence.
Mistress.
“You've done it, Takyr?”
Yes. They will find him as you desire.
“Good.” She lowered the list. Her eyes were bright. “Very good. Now nothing stands in the way of Hotak declaring my son as heir to the throne.”
Chapter XVIII
Blood Upon the Horns
The foul weather, especially the fog, had enabled the ships to avoid any of the vessels patrolling Mithas' waters. It had taken a week of preparation and almost two more of cautious travel for the small flotilla to get this far.
A lightning strike was the ragged rebellion's best hope.
“We must strike at the heart,” General Rahm had told the others. “We must slay Hotak himself. Cut off the head and the body follows.”
“But a full honor guard protects him whenever he goes into the city, and the people follow him,” Jubal had protested. “Attacking the palace is unthinkable. It's the most protected place in all the imperium!”
Hotak had smiled. “So it is. And who would know better than I?”
Passing Thorak and Thuum proved easier than planned, but Hathan, the small garrison island further to the southeast, proved more trouble, for four Imperials had docked there en route to some more distant location. Rahm had been forced to add two days to the journey by heading south around Hathan.
At last, they neared the southern coast of Mithas. In such close waters, Tinza and the other captains had raised their sea dragon banners and guided the other ships like an escort. Here, such a varying group of vessels did not seem out of place.
As they approached Mithas, Rahm did the unthinkable, splitting his forces and sending some off on a separate mission. Captain Tinza and the other three vessels from the Eastern fleet sailed toward the northern tip of the island, some two days from Nethosak. There lay the port of Varga, a small but significant landing used as a link between the far northeastern colonies and those in the innermost Blood Sea region. Tinza and her band would sail in under the banner of the fleet, strike, and create trouble, then escape to a prearranged destination.
With the exception of Dragon’s Crest, the rest of the vessels were commanded by the general to sail to the mountainous eastern shores. They, too, had been given orders timed to coincide with Rahm's own plan.
Hotak's legion guarded the capital; Rahm's own Imperial Guard protected the palace. No one knew the layout of the city better than Rahm. He had memorized every street, every public building. He had studied every available blueprint of the palace, knew each winding corridor and alcove. The knowledge had enabled hi
m to perform his duties and survive where so many others had failed.
Rahm knew the individual commanders of Hotak's forces, knew them well enough to predict their thinking. He understood their deficiencies.
“The merchant Nolhan spoke of… Bilario,” Azak muttered, eyeing the hazy shore. Tall, wooded hills were all that could be made out—and the jutting rocks scattered dangerously just off shore.
“He will be waiting for us at this location?”
“Aye. He owed Tiribus much—so Nolhan said—and the councilor kept him ready in case something happened. Since Tiribus did not see fit to make use of him, it will be our pleasure.”
Silence reigned aboard the ship, the only sounds the creaking of the hull and the constant lapping of the sea. Dragon’s Crest was sailing unusually close to the shoreline. The crew did soundings, and one sailor clung to the bow.
Two hours passed. Three.
A sharply carved rock thrusting out of the sea made Rahm stand up straight. “There!” he whispered, gaze intent. “That's the mark he said to look for! See how it juts up like a raised sickle?”
“Aye, and a wicked promontory at that. So now we head inland?”
“According to Nolhan, it should be safe here.”
“Let us hope he was not mistaken, my friend.”
The renegade ship slipped in closer. Azak commanded the crew to adjust the sails. “We will have to take a long boat in the rest of the way.”
Six in all boarded the small craft. To Rahm, each stroke of the oars sounded like thunder. It seemed to take an eternity to reach land. When the boat neared the craggy shore, the general leaped out to help guide it in.
Everyone disembarked. Two young warriors, volunteers, stood by as the general said farewell to Azak.
“Thank you for all your aid,” Rahm said, clutching the other's hand. “You've been the truest comrade, captain.”
“And you, Rahm, have also been true, which is why I intend to go with you.”
The general's eyes narrowed. “Don't be foolish, Azak. That's madness.”
He looked over the captain's shoulder, realizing that the long boat had begun returning to the ship.
“You there!” he called. “Stop! Comeback!”
“They have orders from their captain,” Azak informed him. “And to me they owe their allegiance first and foremost.” The captain adjusted his axe harness, the head of his weapon already covered by a cloth shroud so as to avoid any gleam from torchlight. “We waste time. This merchant is supposed to be found near Jarva, some four hours' journey by foot. I suggest we move on so that we travel as little as possible by day.”
The other two looked to the general. In silence, Rahm took the lead, Captain Azak following a step behind.
Wild, grassy fields populated intermittently by copses of oak and cedar made up the landscape. On occasion, high rounded hills added variation. The minotaurs crossed a well-worn dirt road but saw no sign of traffic or patrol.
“What sort of merchant lives way out here?” Azak whispered.
“The sort whose dealings involve a swift flight to sea afterward.”
“A smuggler?”
Rahm rubbed his muzzle as he gazed at the path. “Nolhan didn't use the word, but he certainly hinted at it. Master Bilario traded in everything, so he said. Absolutely everything.”
They continued on through mist-covered fields, now and then struggling over uneven, muddy patches. At last, the four came upon a rise over which they spotted the shadowy outline of a provincial estate surrounded by a stone fence. What looked to be fruit trees dotted the area behind the main, fiat-roofed, building.
“Doesn't seem like anyone's home,” Azak muttered.
Rahm sniffed at the air but said nothing. His fingers strayed to the ring.
As they descended, the dim illumination revealed unsettling things. A wooden, slat fence designed to pen livestock had been shattered to kindling. Within lay several carcasses. Further on, an unhitched supply wagon lay tipped on its side, its wheels broken.
Rahm's nostrils flared. “Something's burning, and not just wood.”
Crouching, they headed to the main house. Through the open windows, silken curtains of some light color fluttered. The disturbing scent grew stronger.
Across the front step lay a body.
The young guard had been stabbed several times in the chest and, judging from the blood pooled underneath him, more than once in the back. For good measure, someone had crushed in his muzzle, giving him an ogrelike mask in death. Near his feet, a small, single-edged hand axe lay unsullied.
General Rahm touched the body. “This didn't happen very long ago.”
“Looks like Nolhan's information was a little old.” The captain commented, stepping over the corpse and peering inside. A second later, he pulled back, coughing violently.
“Many dead in there?”
“I couldn't—” Azak coughed again. “I couldn't see much, but the stench was the worst I've smelled since the time the Crest had to fend off barbarians who'd boarded her at night. Someone set a fire in there, but it only did half the job. Think it was Hotak's warriors?”
“Who else?” Rahm looked around. “Let's look around and see if we can salvage anything.” He grunted. “It's going to be a long walk to Nefhosak, and we—”
But he got no further, for at that moment, the sounds of rushing hoofbeats came from the dirt road.
“Inside!” ordered the general.
Eight riders arrived at a breakneck pace. With one exception, they dismounted immediately. That one, clad in the cloak and open helm of an officer, bellowed, “Give everything a look, you blasted loafers! That herder said the ship was just leaving the coastline when he saw it! They may have come here!”
“Place stinks worse than a refuse pit!” grumbled another figure. “All this for smugglers?”
“Be glad you weren't one of them when the emperor's finest came through! Old Bilario should've surrendered to them right away instead of trying to bluff. I warned him enough times.”
“Nothin' but a bunch of crow fodder here, Captain,” returned a third warrior. “Can't we go on? I'm about dead on my feet!”
The others chuckled, but the captain did not find it humorous.
“You may be local militia, but you're still part of the armed might of the empire! By the throne, do your jobs.”
The soldiers quieted down and began wandering about the premises.
“Kreel!” shouted the patrol leader. “Get your sorry carcass into that building! Go through every room on both floors!”
“Captain, have a—”
“Do I look like your mother? Get inside, or I'll throw you in myself! Darot, go with 'im and hold his hand!”
“It's not the bodies,” growled Kreel, his voice growing near. “I have a sensitive nose.”
Inside, Rahm turned to his companions. “Find a place on the floor. Play dead.”
They did so, barely in time. Rahm lay down near an elderly female twisted into her robe. The fire had made partial work of her.
The harsh clatter of armor and weapons echoed throughout the otherwise still house. One came near Rahm, constantly sniffing. His companion was no more eager.
“Waste of time here,” whispered Kreel, sniffing again.
“Stop whining,” the other one, Darot, snarled back.
Further in, something shifted. Both searchers froze, then, more determined, edged forward, axes ready.
A young fighter near the militia members sprang up.
Rahm also jumped to his feet, swearing under his breath.
A dagger flew into Darot's throat. At the same time, a hand kept his muzzle tightly shut. A muffled grunt escaped the dying minotaur before he collapsed into his slayer's arm.
“Darot?” blurted Kreel, turning to see what was happening. He barely had time to register the figure hunched over his companion before General Rahm seized him and, with one swift movement, twisted his head to the side until his neck snapped.
“Kreel
, you worthless excuse for a warrior!” shouted the voice of the patrol officer. “Are you two asleep in there?”
“Still lookin'!” came the answer from behind Rahm.
The general turned to see Azak, winking with a grin.
“Well, hurry about it! I'd like to get to bed before dawn!”
“For one seeking the hidden, he bellows too much,” Azak remarked quietly.
“We need to find another way out of here.” Rahm peered through the dark but detected no back entrance. “Spread out. Find an exit. Whoever does, alert the rest as silently as possible.”
As the others vanished, the general made his way down a blackened corridor. He moved slowly, for the floors lay littered with obstacles. Rahm could smell the sickly odor of roasted flesh everywhere.
Pausing, he put his hand against a crumbling, charred wall—and suddenly noticed a brief glimmer.
Rahm glanced at his ring then spotted a side hallway. Axe ready, the general followed the hallway.
A ruined door greeted him a short distance ahead. Rahm tugged on the still-warm handle. An abrupt, loud creak shattered the quiet as the door opened.
Cursing silently, Rahm peered out. Beyond the estate grounds lay a lightly wooded area. If he and his fellows could reach it…
“Thought I heard something,” a tall figure bearing an axe grumbled behind Rahm. “Captain's tired of waiting for you two to—” He stopped and raised his weapon. “Captain!” the searcher roared. “I got one! Captain!”
Rahm barely got his blade up in time. The two heads sparked as they clashed, the force of the blow sending both stumbling back. Grunting, Rahm's foe swung again, a whistling swathe. Rahm brought his own axe under the other's outstretched arms. His blade dug deep into his foe's midsection. The minotaur teetered then made a wild swing that brought down much of the already-disintegrating wall.
Rahm caught his opponent in the side. The axehead sank deep this time. The other minotaur let out a moan then toppled forward.
Shouts arose from within the building, then the clash of arms. Hurling himself through the doorway, Rahm landed hard on his knees. His weapon flew just out of reach, and he stooped to pick it up.
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